


So Far From Home

by Anti_Gravity



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, No noncon, No underage, hermione is 26 and bellatrix is 22, not a christmas fic, slight age gap
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 17:21:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21952075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anti_Gravity/pseuds/Anti_Gravity
Summary: This is a Bellamione Cult Secret Santa gift for Cat!26-year-old Hermione Granger is in search of an ancient artifact that could save the lives of everyone she loves. She finds something better--a way to go back and prevent the war that took countless others.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Bellatrix Black Lestrange
Comments: 5
Kudos: 44
Collections: Bellamione Cult Secret Santa 2019





	So Far From Home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cat/gifts).



Hermione Granger, hero of the Second Wizarding War and former wife of Ronald Weasley, stood before an onyx mausoleum in the heart of the Père Lachaise Cemetery in France. It barely stood out against the dark, lit as it was only by the dimmed tip of Hermione's wand and her nonverbal lumos. The imposing pillars and ornate mahogany doors gave nothing away as to the mausoleum's sole occupant, but the heavy magical wards placed on the structure were impossible to miss. It was clear that whoever was interred here was someone of great importance—or someone who posed a significant threat, even in death.

Her brow furrowed, Hermione approached the doors cautiously, gripping her wand tightly and muttering incantations to allow her through the wards. Her other hand clutched at a necklace that hung low on her chest, a crude metallic bird skull that she had been promised would unlock the doors, if the 3,000 galleons she had paid for it had truly been put to good use. It was the last purchase she ever wished to make in a shop far worse than any that could be found on Knockturn Alley, a shop that appeared once a year for only an hour in the ossuary beneath the Paris streets. She had brushed elbows with witches and wizards whose very presence made her neck prickle, and was glad that protocol required all shoppers to conceal their faces. She was certain she wanted none of them to know who she was.

Reaching the tall double doors of the sepulcher, she pulled the necklace off and pressed it, beak-first, against a keyhole that most certainly did not look as though it was made for anything but a conventional key. As she suspected, it pressed in heedless of the concealing charm and fit perfectly into place. With a gentle twist, the doors unlocked, a hollow click echoing against the oppressive silence of the cemetery.

Hermione removed the necklace and pushed in just enough to slip through, shutting them behind her before illuminating her wand fully in the windowless room. Fat candles sat in their sconces at the perimeter, wicks untouched by fire. In the center of the room lay an onyx sarcophagus, seeming to rise directly from the floor itself and made of the same flawless glossy black stone as the mausoleum. Upon its surface, a disturbingly lifelike carving of a beautiful woman rested, coming into sharp relief as Hermione drew closer with her wand. The flowing curls and striking features were unmistakable, even when cut from stone—Bellatrix Black Lestrange. Despite taking Rodolphus' name and being interred in his ancestral cemetery, his remains had been given diminished importance, reduced to ashes and buried in an urn outside of this mausoleum. Presumably the House of Black, or what remained of it, had insisted on grand provisions for one of their own taken so far from home. The Ministry of Magic had absolutely forbidden her placement within England, and so this was where she now rested.

Unbidden, Hermione's free hand came up to stroke along the smooth surface of the carved cheek. Obviously the family had opted for a pre-Azkaban likeness of Bellatrix, and had spared no expense for its creation. It was flawless, ethereal. Bellatrix really had been beautiful. But she was not here to wonder at the beauty of one who had caused so much pain and suffering—she was here to retrieve something the witch had been buried with. Her macabre task remembered, Hermione withdrew her hand from Bellatrix's stony face and slid it along the edge of the tomb, searching for the seam.

She felt along the entire side, unable to discern any irregularities that could hint at a way to open it. She repeated the search on each side, then tried several spells that proved equally ineffective. Sheathing her wand, Hermione slid to the floor with the sarcophagus at her back and let her temple rest against the cool surface, sighing in frustration. The pitch darkness and heavy silence would have made her feel unconscious if it hadn't been for the feeling of the stone against her skin. She ran through everything she knew about the wards, the history of the Blacks, the Lestranges, breaking into places you weren't wanted. Nothing stood out as a potential solution.

Three years ago, which had marked six since the Battle of Hogwarts, the only known portrait of Bellatrix Black had vanished from Malfoy Manor, one of many such artifacts to do so in a mysterious event the Daily Prophet had referred to as The Calamity. Not long after, Hermione had been strong-armed into the Statute of Secrecy Task Force, asked to track down the missing artifacts and investigate the reason for their disappearance. Two years ago, she had resigned from the Task Force, fearing for her children's lives. One year ago, again fearing for her children's lives, she resumed her search for Bellatrix's missing portrait, this time independently and unbeknownst to the Ministry. There had been whispers of a corruption, a plague spreading among the highest ranking of witches and wizards, one which had not been seen before in the wizarding world and whose only symptom was a creeping madness that progressed to a murderous rage.

She saw it in Ron the night she sent the children to the Burrow. Ron had not been himself for weeks, jittery and snappish. Harry had been over for dinner with Ginny and their children, and Harry had sequestered himself in the kitchen with Ron to talk things over. He emerged looking grave, shaking his head at Ginny and Hermione when they shot him questioning looks, his eyes moist and rimmed in red. Ginny, ever stoic, squeezed Hermione's hand and said "I'll tell mum it's happened and not to let him over. The kids can stay with her for now, it's where they'll be safest."

"You should go with them, Hermione," Harry had said sadly. "It's not safe for you here. He could go at any moment."

Hermione had refused, knowing her own power and trusting Ron not to hurt her. She hadn't anticipated him snapping just two nights later, waking her with a knife bouncing off the shield charm she'd set over herself. It had been a heartwrenching struggle to get him under her control, and even more heartbreaking to leave him in the secure wing at St. Mungo's, but she was sure she could cure him, could cure every high-ranking member of the Ministry of Magic if she could just find the source of the plague.

The trail had led her here. Not even Harry knew what she had been doing these many months. When Ron had died at the hands of a fellow patient similarly stricken with the plague, Hermione had been shocked at how little she had felt and worried for a time that she was exhibiting early symptoms herself. She had distanced herself from her children for their own protection, and instead had thrown herself into the search for a cure in earnest. She was absolutely convinced that the answer was tied to the missing artifacts, and the best leads she had were for Bellatrix's portrait.

A sudden chill in the air brought Hermione back to the present. She sat up straighter, then climbed to her feet when she realized it was light enough to make out the faint outlines of candles on the walls. Had she been lost in thought longer than it seemed? Was daylight already creeping through the door? A glance toward them revealed nothing, and her eyes strained as they looked around for the source of the light.

Suddenly, she gasped and leaped backward against the mausoleum wall, the back of her head smacking against it as she misjudged the distance in the dim light. There, sitting on the edge of the sarcophagus, looking casually regal and a mirror image of the carving, was Bellatrix Lestrange. Far less visible than any of the Hogwarts ghosts had been, but still clearly defined, she glowed faintly and stared directly at Hermione, her gaze penetrating and unsettling.

The two watched each other without speaking, Hermione not even sure she could find her voice. Finally, Ghost Bellatrix seemed to get bored with studying Hermione and pushed herself off the sarcophagus, approaching Hermione who pressed herself harder against the wall and stared, wide-eyed. She wasn't sure if it was her eyes adjusting or if Bellatrix's outline was getting stronger, but she was definitely easier to see now.

"Who are you and what are you doing in my room?" Bellatrix asked. Hermione jumped at the sound of her voice. It was borderline pleasant, with none of the harsh grit of age or violence to hinder it. It was exactly as she would imagine a younger, pre-Azkaban Bellatrix to sound.

Bellatrix tapped her foot, the motion soundless, and Hermione realized she had yet to answer.

"You…don't remember me?" Hermione wavered. The scar on her arm twinged as if in response to realizing exactly who stood before her.

"Should I?" Bellatrix intoned. She resumed her scrutiny of the other witch, smirking a little. "You are a pretty thing, aren't you? What family do you come from? House Yaxley?"

Hermione startled at the familiar name, but couldn't bring herself to speak again. Bellatrix scowled at her reticence.

"No? Well then. You don't look like anyone I'd know. What's your name?"

That was easy enough. "Hermione Granger," she said, flinching in anticipation of Bellatrix being sure to recognize her now. She groped for her wand, her hand trembling, and clasped it in its holster.

Bellatrix watched the movement with interest, but otherwise didn't react to the name that ought to have triggered some kind of response. Instead, she repeated it back, testing the sound of it on her lips. "Hermione Granger," she said. "All right, and what are you doing here in my chambers, Hermione Granger?" she asked again.

Hermione swallowed and relaxed slightly. At least the eldest Black sister didn't seem to be on the verge of attacking her, although Bellatrix had been known to be unpredictable at best. But could it be possible she didn't know she was a ghost?

"Bellatrix…do you…I mean, are you aware…erm, where do you think you are right now?" Hermione asked.

Bellatrix looked perplexed. "I'm at the Lestrange manor, exactly where it seems you shouldn't be. I wasn't aware Rodolphus had invited guests over, and they're certainly not welcome in my room."

Hermione gaped. So she didn't know. Just as she was about to continue her line of questioning, Bellatrix seemed to lose patience with her and reached for her arm as if to drag her out of the room. But her hand passed right through, and she started violently. "What's this?" she barked, and tried for Hermione's arm again. Hermione remained where she was, allowing Bellatrix's hand to pass through her once more and marveling at the sensation of tiny pinpricks through the area.

"Are you a ghost?" Bellatrix asked finally, once she had apparently satisfied herself that she couldn't grab onto the other woman. "Why are you haunting me? I've never seen you here before."

Despite their terrible shared history, Hermione found herself unable to stop the wave of compassion she felt for the witch. She was clearly young enough to not have committed any of the atrocities she was known for, merely puzzled instead of enraged at Hermione's presence. This version of Bellatrix looked to be in her early 20's, her reference to Rodolphus tipping her off that this was a fresh arrangement. She didn't want to break the news to her, but she absolutely had to get into that sarcophagus. And maybe this spectral Bellatrix could help her.

"I'm not a ghost, Bellatrix…but I'm afraid you are."

TO BE CONTINUED

**Author's Note:**

> This is absolutely going to continue, and it is going to feature both of them heavily with plenty of eventual Bellomione. I've got a ton of great ideas to use in the next few chapters.
> 
> Merry Christmas!


End file.
